Internalize, Repress, Repeat
by Tyranusfan
Summary: Sam had to hold in his grief, no matter what. He had work to do. Rated T.


_Been thinking about how we never really saw Sam grieve for Jess in season 1. Never really saw him grieve for John in season 2. This is my take on why. _

_Fair warning, it's a little dark._

_Thanks to geminigrl11 for the beta, and the folks at SFTCOL(AR)S for the inspiration._

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**Internalize. Repress. Repeat.**

Jess had been right. Sam crashed and burned without her. Or would have, had Dean not been there.

Sam had felt like the world was collapsing down around his ears in those first few months, but he forced himself to keep it inside. He couldn't talk to Dean about it, and there was no one else to talk to, so….

Besides, grieving in public---the rending of garments, gnashing of teeth, and all that---wasn't the Winchester way. You lost someone? Drink. Once you're drunk you'd forget all about it. Someone asked how you were? Say you're fine and get angry. Make it about the other guy's issues, not yours, and they'll leave you alone to drown in your sorrow.

God forbid you actually tell someone you're dying on the inside. That every minute of every day was torture and just gave you one more reason to put a gun to your head. No, better that others see you brave and strong. Macho. Can't harm me. I'm freaking fantastic. Why? What the hell's wrong with _you_?

Of course, Sam didn't talk to Dean about it for other reasons, too. Because he dreamed about her death before it happened. Because he was a freak, seeing the future, and didn't want his brother to look at him differently. And Dean would. Everyone would.

But mostly because Sam was an utter failure at everything, and if Dean found that out, it would cost Sam his last safe haven. He couldn't afford to be alone right then. He needed Dean, even though he was pretty sure Dean didn't need him. Dean was strong. Dean had hunted alone for years now.

At least, that's what Sam had been told.

Who needed an emotionally wrecked, needy, weepy college dropout tagging along? Sharing and caring, sobbing and moaning, breaking and failing? Sam couldn't be that, no matter how easy it would be. He had to stay strong.

So, he internalized his burning, soul-eating grief and tried to be the hunter Dean needed as a partner. Kept his game face on. Anger was all he dared let out. Revenge would cure everything.

Or so Sam had been told.

_Seems to work great for Dad_.

Maybe he should be more like his dad. There was a thought that was going to fester….

The only occasion Sam dared let his abyss of anguish out to breathe was two months after getting back on the road. The night of Dean's 27th birthday, of all times.

He didn't mean to. Didn't want to. But, three beers into what would eventually be a four-beer night, Sam's walls had slipped without his notice. He couldn't remember what triggered it---a passing blond waitress, a smell, a sound---but halfway into his fourth bottle, he was crying. Straight past the usual karaoke round and into Final Jeopardy.

Sam didn't even remember leaving the bar, but somehow he'd ended up in the Impala, head pressed against his brother's shoulder, sobbing like the world had ended and it was all his fault.

Because it had. And it was.

All he really remembered after the breakdown was Dean talking into the top of his head that night, while he cried his eyes out.

_I was wondering how many beers it would take, Sammy…._

Sam hadn't understood the comment at the time. Thought it was just some lame joke designed to snap him out of his dirge.

It wasn't until a day later, after avoiding Dean for hours out of sheer humiliation, that Sam realized that he'd been set up. Dean had been playing psychiatrist.

He couldn't make up his mind whether he should hug Dean or punch him. Hug him for caring. Punch him for sacrificing his birthday for Sam. Dean deserved a day of celebration, not a night of tear-soaked reminiscing. Sam was a failure. A jinx. A curse. Dean should have taken his night for himself instead of letting Sam ruin it.

Yes, they still disagreed on the best strategy for finding Dad. Yes, Dean was annoyingly loyal to their AWOL father when he really should have been thinking more for himself, but for a moment, at least, they'd stopped being bickering partners and lost sons, and just been brothers.

Still, Sam was left with a decision. Punch Dean or hug him?

Ultimately, he split the difference, and detailed the Impala without being asked. Winchesters had funny ways of saying thank you, too.

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Nine days after John Winchester's funeral, Sam realized that he needed to pull it together. Dean was right. He was dumping his grief onto his older brother, maybe subconsciously hoping the added weight would force Dean into dealing with his grief. Force him into letting Sam help him, because Sam _needed_ to help him. He needed to make up for being the bad son, the prodigal son. Fixing Dean would do that.

Sam needed to fix Dean because he needed his big brother to reciprocate. Sam needed Dean to fix _him_.

Dean needed to be fixed first, though, in order for that to happen. It was only logical.

Or so Sam's subconscious seemed to believe.

_These are your issues, stop piling them on me!_

_It's too little, too late_.

It had taken a trip to his mother's symbolic grave and a quiet moment on the side of some nameless road for Sam to realize how incredibly selfish he was being. Dean was barely holding himself together, and he couldn't take Sam's guilt and grief, too. It was too much, even for the superhero of Sam's youth. His idol was coming apart, and it suddenly occurred to Sam that Dean wasn't going to be able to fix them both.

Sam needed to be strong. He needed to take charge, let Dean recover. Let Dean rest for a while.

So what if the Yellow-Eyed Demon was still out there? So what if Sam was no closer to the revenge he needed than he had been thirteen months earlier? So what if that revenge seemed to be the only thing holding Sam together anymore?

Dean needed to step back, so Sam needed to step up. It was that simple. He had to embrace the hunt, his mortal enemy. Sam needed to cover Dean's retreat, so that maybe, somehow, they'd live to fight another day.

His grief could wait. His guilt could wait. He needed to be the brother Dean needed, not the son no one wanted. Not the freak all the bad guys had plans for.

So, he buried his guilt and his grief, and any hope of reconciling with his father, even posthumously. Kept his game face on.

Not like he could have been forgiven, at that point, anyway.

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Three days after Madison's death, Sam realized his mistake.

She was the first woman he'd opened up to since Jessica. Sarah had come close, but she'd been too early. Her very proximity to his loss had ensured Sam didn't act on his attraction. He'd been too raw, too skittish.

_Thank God. _

Sarah was lucky. Sam liked her too much to watch her die.

Madison came along just in time for Sam to forget what he was, why he was alone. It had been easy. So much going on, so much fear over his destiny. So much danger. Something was building, just over the horizon. Something bad. Sam felt it.

He'd been distracted, and let his hormones lead him to something he should have been guarding against. The paranoid side of him would have said that women tended to die around him. The more rational and practical part of him was quick to point out that men were no safer. Dad had died, too, and Dean had come close. And if his Dad hadn't made a deal, Dean would have died, too, and Sam's curse might have made a clean sweep of everyone.

No deals would have saved Madison, though. He'd let his libido override his judgment, and the next thing he knew, he was putting a bullet in her heart.

It was a test, Sam was sure of it. He'd begged Dean to put him out of his misery when his destiny arrived. He'd forced Dean to say yes, even though he could see the pain in his sibling's eyes when he agreed. Madison was just fair play. Sam had to put his money where his mouth was. He had to do what he'd forced Dean to promise.

She hadn't wanted to be a monster; she had asked Sam for help, for a way out. Sam understood that all too well. He had no choice but to kill her. No choice but to see that glint of relief in her eyes and the smile on her face as she died.

Sam knew that, one day, that same look might well pass across his face, and Dean would be the one hurt by it.

No surprise there: hurting people was Sam's specialty.

Dean brought two cases of beer to the motel a few nights later. Sam indulged. He wasn't sure how many it took to loosen his tongue, but he remembered when his walls came down. He remembered Dean being there, like always, shouldering his pain and making the hole inside him seem smaller for a while.

_It wasn't your fault. She was dead before we got there_.

But the only thoughts running through Sam's mind were about his Dad. About all the fights, all the head-butting. All the resentment Sam had felt because he thought his Dad had been denying him a normal life and forcing the hunter's life onto him.

All Sam could think was that he'd been wrong.

His Dad had been right. It would never be over. Sam could never get away. He needed to work. He needed to hunt. It was the only way to prove to Dean and to himself that he could be more than just a curse. He _could_ save people. It didn't always have to be like Jess and Madison.

Sam threw himself into work after that, and tried to ignore the worried way Dean looked at him.

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His body felt odd. Too tight. Clumsy. Sluggish. It was like he wasn't used to being inside his own skin anymore. He was still trying to adjust after the stabbing and his subsequent resurrection.

Four days after the showdown in the old Wyoming cowboy cemetery, Sam sat in the Impala and waited for Dean to finish his latest conquest of the fairer sex. She was a waitress this time, he was fairly certain, though Sam was quickly losing track during his brother's marathon.

Dean never stayed more than a few hours, so Sam waited in the car in front of whatever dive they were staying in and continued reading up on demon deals and Hell.

Sam tried to pretend that everything was fine, but he was burning up inside. Anger pulled at the corners of his mind, and his patience with Dean's newfound horndog phase was wearing thin much faster than anticipated.

_One year_. Dean had sold his soul and left Sam with one year to do the next-to-impossible.

Part of him was touched that Dean loved him so much. Another, much larger and less forgiving part of him was incensed.

How could Dean sell his soul? After everything he'd said about Dad and all the self-righteous fury that had consumed him in the seven months since that fateful day in the hospital, Dean had run out and done the exact same thing. Only, this time, it was Sam on the receiving end. Sam was the one who would now be mourning.

And Dean acted like he didn't even care. Wouldn't even discuss it.

Sam tried to blame his blackening mood on the situation they were in. Demons were running free. A veritable army of them had been released from the Devil's Gate, and were off somewhere, up to who-knew-what.

That, and Sam's back was throbbing. The pain was far more manageable than it had been days earlier, but the bruised scar along the middle of his back was not healing quickly.

Apparently, crossroads demons made poor doctors.

Dean poked his head past the curtains in the room, shooting Sam a quick, self-satisfied grin. He seemed reluctant to leave Sam unattended for more than minutes at a time since they'd left Wyoming, which must have made his sexcapades more challenging. Sam smiled back, hoping that it reached his eyes and Dean didn't see through his act.

Sam had to play along for now. Sit quietly while Dean started his last mile and pretend that he wasn't furious.

He didn't want to spend any of Dean's remaining time on Earth fighting. No, if he was going to find Dean a way out of the mess he'd created---they'd _both_ created---then Sam would need to be strong. He couldn't afford to let Dean see him falling apart, not after his brother had given up everything for him.

It would not be easy. Not after what Sam had learned in Cold Oak. Yellow Eyes had poisoned Sam with demon blood. Infected him with a disease when he was six months old, and there was nothing Sam could do. He couldn't rip it out. Couldn't scrub it clean.

And Mom had known about it. She had known who Yellow Eyes was.

Sam didn't know all the details yet---he would, he planned on it---but the sense of betrayal was overwhelming.

They'd idolized their mother, placed her on a pedestal. Suddenly finding out it might have all been a _lie_ was a hard blow. Mom was a liar. Sam was tainted by their worst enemy.

_I can't tell Dean. It'll kill him_. Sam shook his head. It wasn't important at that moment. He had to find a way to break the deal, nothing else mattered. Nothing else was real. If he failed, Dean was going to Hell. Sam could stop it. He had to stop it.

That's what family was for, even if "family" was a freak.

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The first few days after his 25th birthday, Sam couldn't stop crying. Every time he looked at Dean, the grief hit him like a semi. But he couldn't stop looking.

Dean was little comfort. The shoulder Sam once could rely on was cold. Unmoving. Dead.

Like the rest of the world.

Bobby stuck his head in every few hours. The abandoned shack outside Pontiac belonged to…someone. Sam couldn't remember. Sam didn't care. The scent of alcohol permeated the filthy hovel.

He only agreed to bury Dean because he didn't want anything happening to the body. Carting it around like the plot of some dark comedy Dean had always laughed at wouldn't work. Too many prying eyes. Too many scavengers, mortal and ethereal alike.

Sam let Bobby drag him back to South Dakota after the funeral, but he didn't stay the night. After a quick raid of Bobby's liquor cabinet, Sam went driving in the Impala.

It was his car, now.

Whoopy freakin' doo.

He'd never wanted it. That was Dean and Dad's thing.

Not like he had anywhere in particular to go.

The whiskey cleared his head a little. Kept his head above water in an ocean of grief and regret. He realized that he had somewhere to go after all.

Sam didn't even have to think about it. The alcohol did all the thinking for him. Cool. No need to think or doubt or even question.

The bottle wasn't that big, and Sam got to the bottom before he even finished burying the box at the crossroads.

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Even in his state, Sam knew he was wasted. His self-awareness was pretty keen, considering he'd already imbibed enough alcohol to knock out three smaller men.

Literally. They were sprawled out under the table at his feet. Sam sneered as he collected his five hundred bucks. _Dumb asses_. _Serves them right for daring a Winchester_.

_Especially a cursed one._

Sam stumbled out the door to the bar, ignoring the claps and laughter behind him. He'd never realized that drinking was such a spectator sport. Pocketing his newly won cash, he started down the sidewalk toward the Impala. The afternoon sun was in his eyes, and he couldn't remember if he owned sunglasses or not. If he did, they weren't on his person.

He stopped under a store overhang to get out of the light. Well, and because the brick wall was helping him stay upright at that moment. The car could wait for him to get his bearings. The pause helped him get his erratic thoughts in order, anyway.

He'd tried opening the Devil's Gate out in Wyoming. Nothing. The Colt was the only key and that bitch Bela was roasting in Hell along with Dean, so that was a dead end. Sam snickered. _Dead end_.

None of the crossroads demons would deal with him. He'd killed three already. The fourth didn't even bother to show up. Fine. No deals. Nada. Zero.

Suicide was still an option. In theory, suicide was a one way ticket to the Pit. He could find Dean in person.

Sam shook his head. Not yet. Still a few avenues to go down before he tried that one. Maybe in a few weeks.

He hadn't cried in a long time. Not since Pontiac. No more tears to spill. No more grief. No more moaning and begging absentee gods who never answered him.

Just rage. Not anger. Not melodramatic violence vented on mouthy barflies and motel rooms.

Rage.

Sam could feel it, growing, smoldering in his chest. It made him want to scream. It was all he felt anymore. The guilt and uselessness had been buried under it. Buried with Dean.

His eyes drifted to the window of the storefront he was leaning against. It was an electronics store. He settled on a small, white casing with silver highlights.

Eight minutes and one very offended clerk later, Sam plugged the iPod jack into the cigarette lighter in the Impala. _There_. Sam smiled for the first time all week. It was perfect. He'd load every crappy emo and disco song he could find into it.

It was the perfect _fuck you_ to Dean for leaving him.

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On the side of the highway in Kentucky, Sam silently listened to Dean spill his guts about Hell for the first time.

Sam wished he could do something. Wished he could say something. Once upon a time, he could have. He might have tried. But now there were no words.

Grief wasn't the answer. Commiserating with Dean, however emotionally satisfying, wasn't the answer. All that was too little, too late. Sam couldn't change the past or hide his brother from it. There was only one answer. Vengeance.

Lilith had to die.

She had taken Dean and tortured him in unspeakable ways. She had arranged for the crossroads demons to keep Dean there, no matter what Sam offered. He was sure of that, now.

The bitch had to die. That was the only thing that would bring Dean peace.

Sam could do that. Ruby had helped him unleash the power inside him. He could destroy Lilith and end Dean's nightmares. Forget the angels. Forget Uriel and his threats. Hell, forget Ruby. He didn't need her. Dean didn't want them talking anyway.

That was fine. Sam could do this alone. He would keep his game face on do what needed to be done.

He wrapped his arm around Dean's shuddering shoulders, offering what little support he could. It wasn't much, but Dean slowly stilled and started reeling himself back in.

_Trust me, big brother. Just this once. Let me call the shots for a change. I'll make it all better_.

For once in his life, Sam knew what he had to do. He was the only one left who could end it.

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The blinding white light was surrounding them, filling the room. It was all Sam could look at.

Dean was there, pulling at his clothes, trying to get him to move, but Sam couldn't understand why he bothered.

_Dean…he's coming_….

Lucifer. Sam almost laughed. The freakin' _devil_ was coming. The world was about to end.

And Sam had ended it.

It made sense. Sam should have seen that coming. Nothing he did ever worked out right. Nothing he did ever saved anyone.

Sam Winchester just killed people. His mother. His father. Jess. Madison. Dean. Hell, he bet that nice doctor he'd spent the evening with back in Bedford had bought it by now.

Now, he'd extended the courtesy to the whole world. Sam figured he should feel something about that. He should feel horrible, terrified. He should be grieving for the world he'd just destroyed in a moment of vengeance.

Grief wouldn't come, though. Nothing would. It figured. He was a piss-poor excuse for a son and a brother, and a piss-poor excuse for a hunter. He'd let a demon seduce him into doing the unthinkable.

He huffed out a laugh. Dean looked at him like he was crazy.

Maybe he was. Sam tried to repress the absurd feeling of amusement that swept over him. All that fighting. All the pain. All the mistrust. All that begging he'd done, trying to convince Dean that he knew what he was doing….

What a joke!

Dean should have killed him long ago. _Dad was right all along_.

Sam shook his head and pulled at his hair. What was wrong with him? He should be begging Dean's forgiveness. He should be grieving for the end of everything.

But all he could do was laugh.

END


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